Scarlett didn't return to Los Angeles after seven days.
Sofia Coppola summoned her back to re-record dialogue and make minor tweaks. After that, she'd be off to the Venice Film Festival with Sofia.
On the phone, Scarlett grumbled about not coming back while playfully cooing, "Babe, wait for me, okay? Be good!"
She ended the call with a dramatic "mwah!"
With Scarlett gone, time seemed to speed up. The post-production of Final Destination moved forward methodically under James Wong's obsessive control.
Editing, scoring, sound effects, visual effects…
Every step tortured the crew but polished the final cut.
Inside the studio, under massive flashlights and reflectors, Leon, Anne, and the other main actors were shooting promotional photos for movie posters and magazines.
Tony Todd, who played Ms. Valerie Lewton, carried a commanding presence.
Kerr Smith, the arrogant Carter, was surprisingly friendly off-screen.
Teri Chaney, who played the likable Amanda, had a sharp, glamorous edge in real life.
And then there were the young actors cast as doomed students.
First up were solo shots.
Leon slipped into Alex's signature casual look and, under the photographer's direction, snapped into character effortlessly.
He didn't need exaggerated poses—just a shift in his eyes conveyed Alex's anxiety, fear, and growing resolve in the face of inescapable death.
The flash popped, capturing every subtle emotional shift.
Then it was Anne's turn.
She wore Claire's sweater, her makeup deliberately minimal to highlight her innocence and fragility.
Under the harsh lights, she was nervous at first, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.
But with the photographer's guidance and Leon's calm gaze from nearby, she relaxed.
She turned slightly, her eyes reflecting Claire's sensitivity, worry, and a faint, unspoken trust in Alex.
Her beauty wasn't bold or aggressive—it flowed gently, stirring a quiet, almost protective charm under the lens.
"Perfect, Anne! Hold it! That's the vibe!" the photographer shouted, thrilled.
The other actors took their turns.
Tony Todd only needed a stern expression to exude authority.
Teri Chaney had to dial back her real-life sharpness.
"Alright, duo shots!" the photographer called.
"Leon, Anne, get closer…"
The crew adjusted the reflectors.
Leon and Anne stepped to the center of the backdrop.
The distance between them shrank. They could smell each other's scent.
"Leon, stand just behind Anne—yes, angle your body slightly, eyes toward me, but make it feel like your focus is on her," the photographer directed.
"Anne, tilt your head a bit, show a touch of reliance, a bit of fear, and… yes, that unspoken connection!"
Leon's hand hovered near Anne's waist, not quite touching, but his warmth seemed to seep through her thin sweater.
Anne's body stiffened, her breathing quickening slightly. The flashlights blazed again.
She followed instructions, her fingertips brushing Leon's forearm.
"Great! Keep it! Anne, more trust in your eyes… Yes! Leon, show some protective instinct!"
Leon adjusted his stance, letting her lean into him naturally.
Their eyes met under the bright lights, then slid away, the chemistry so seamless it felt rehearsed.
"Perfect!" the photographer yelled, ecstatic.
Click! Click! The shutter fired nonstop.
A makeup artist stepped in to touch up Anne's powder, winking at Leon with a tease: "Hey, Leon, take care of Miss Claire—she looks like 'Death' is freaking her out."
The tone was playful.
Leon just gave a faint smile, neither confirming nor denying.
Anne blushed slightly, fussing with nonexistent wrinkles in her sweater.
During a break, an assistant handed out coffee.
Anne casually passed a cup to Leon, who was reviewing test shots with the photographer.
He took it and sipped, the motion so natural it felt like a habit formed over years.
Tony Todd, sitting nearby, rumbled to Kerr Smith in his deep voice, "Youth's a beautiful thing, isn't it?"
Kerr smirked, replying with a knowing edge, "Yeah, especially when 'Death' is too busy falling in love."
They exchanged a "we both get it" glance before looking away, playing it cool.
The entire crew—from the lighting assistants to the second AD—seemed to share an unspoken agreement.
They noticed the unusual spark between Leon and Anne, the subtle interactions and glances that went beyond professional necessity, but they stayed quiet, even indulging it with a hint of amusement.
In this industry, stuff like this was common. As long as it didn't mess with work, everyone kept up the professional facade.
Their collective silence was like a thin veil—covering the truth while letting it peek through.
A few days later, Eli Roth threw a party at his place, complete with an open-air pool.
It was billed as another Saw crew reunion, but the scale was anything but "small."
The music was deafening, blending with the splash of pool water and raucous laughter.
Smoke curled from a massive barbecue grill, the scent of charred meat hanging in the air.
Ice buckets brimmed with chilled beer and champagne.
And, like every Hollywood party, the scene was packed with scantily clad, gorgeous young women—models, bit-part actresses—flitting through the crowd like butterflies, their presence a heady mix of hormones and ambition, the essential backdrop to parties like this.
Leon showed up alone.
He was an instant magnet.
"Leon, over here!"
Eli charged over, reeking of beer, and pulled him into a bro-hug. A few young women who played victims in Saw swarmed him, their greetings laced with unabashed admiration and interest.
Leon handled it smoothly, grabbing a beer and slipping into the chaos with ease.
The party was electric.
Someone, drunk, cannonballed into the pool, sparking screams and laughter.
Trevor was holding court, animatedly explaining fake wound effects to a group of wide-eyed girls.
Dave, the screenwriter Eli once threatened to split half his pay with Leon, sat on a corner sofa like a brooding mountain, somehow flanked by two starstruck girls hanging on his every word.
Leon traded drinks with the crew, chatted up strangers who approached, and let the vibe carry him.
As the party hit its peak, the music grew wilder.
Alcohol and the atmosphere loosened everyone up.
Leon had just finished a drink with a lighting tech when Eli, sloshed and clutching a glass, slung an arm around his shoulders.
He dragged Leon out of a cluster of bikini-clad women to a quieter spot by the barbecue grill.
"Hey! Leon!" Eli slurred, his tongue heavy with booze but his eyes struggling to focus.
"Having fun? Look at these girls… Damn, we made it, didn't we? Pick one, I'll hook you up…"
Leon chuckled, pushing away the beer Eli offered. "Save it, Eli. You keep 'em."
Eli laughed, then suddenly clapped Leon's back hard, swaying as he lowered his voice, his tone sobering despite the drunken haze.
"Alright… serious talk, Leon. There's something… you gotta know."
Leon leaned against the warm grill, watching the poolside chaos, and gave a small hum.
"Martin Cole… that damn ex-agent of yours…" Eli cursed, hiccupping.
"That old bastard… he's like a ghost that won't quit."
"Couple nights ago… at some party… he was drunk as hell, mouthing off to anyone who'd listen… saying he's got 'the real dirt' on you…"
"Said when Fox builds you up, when your name's too big to touch… he's gonna pull you down. Says you're no genius… just some lucky punk…"
Eli shook Leon's shoulder, his eyes cloudy with worry and whiskey.
"Guys like that… they're like rats in a sewer… you can't guard against 'em. You gotta… gotta watch your back."
The music, poolside shrieks, and girls' laughter faded into a distant hum.
Leon's easy smile didn't falter. He even picked up someone's half-empty whiskey from the table and took a slow sip.
"Got it, Eli," he said calmly. "Thanks."
Eli, frustrated by his nonchalance, pressed, "That's it? That's your reaction? That old creep…"
"If all he's got is drunk bar talk, let him yap," Leon cut in, his tone carrying a lazy disdain. "Who's gonna believe him?"
He patted Eli's shoulder, urging him to sober up. "Come on, don't let some old dog ruin the vibe. Go check on Trevor—I think he's about to make those girls cry."
With that, Leon turned, slipping back into the pulsing crowd as if he'd just heard some trivial gossip.
Eli stood there, watching Leon melt into the swirl of lights and revelry. After a few seconds, he muttered "bullshit" under his breath and stumbled off for another drink.
Leon flashed the perfect party-animal grin, chatting up a pretty stranger.
But beneath the smile, behind the thumping music and swaying bodies, a cold, sharp glint flickered in his eyes.
Martin Cole?
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